


Blend it, mend it

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: Stick it in a blender [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8330542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: The hard-won stability of Athos's life is threatened by another bomb.





	

Charles spread butter on his croissant. “When you talk to Treville today, could you remind him I could be late tomorrow?”

Athos nodded. “How late?”

“Not sure. We’re a bit short-handed. Favre went home ill yesterday and I don’t expect her back before the weekend. I’ll do my best but I can’t promise.”

“We’ll manage.” Athos wiped a bit of butter from the corner of his husband’s mouth, and Charles kissed his finger. “Poor Aramis has a day long seminar today at the Ministry of Health.”

“Yeah, Porthos was complaining to me yesterday. They should be here for supper though. Did you decide what you wanted to cook?”

“Something long and slow.” Athos arched an eyebrow as he said it.

Charles grinned. “My favourite kind.”

“Yes, I know.” Athos smirked, thinking of last night. “Is _coq au vin_ acceptable?”

“Always. Or maybe ragout.”

“Not unless you’re here to help me with the pasta.”

“I knew I should have never made you watch _Ghost_ with me.”

“I gave you my romantic comedy virginity, dear, so you have to live with the consequences.”

Charles laughed, then looked at the clock. “I also have to get moving.” He swallowed the rest of his coffee, then stood so he could lean in and kiss Athos on the lips. “See you this evening, love.”

“Yes, _mon capitaine_.”

Charles smiled. He was new enough at the rank for the little joke to still amuse him, and Athos proud enough of his husband to keep making it.

Athos sighed a little when Charles left, having to make the unpleasant mental adjustment to solitude again even a year after Aramis moved out to live with Porthos. The fact that Aramis and Porthos lived on the floor below made it easier, but on work days the two of them were out, just as Charles was. It wasn’t that Athos needed company for conversation. He just felt better when someone else was _there_ when he wanted them to be.

But being an adult, and now officially a mentally competent one, he didn’t let his feelings stop him getting on with cleaning up after breakfast or doing his exercises. These had progressed from simple fencing moves and stretches to a much longer and more strenuous routine to increase his flexibility and strength as well as balance.

He showered, then sat down to read his emails and send messages. The first one was to Jean Treville, the Garrison fencing club captain, to pass on Charles’s message and to confirm that Athos, Aramis and Sylvie would be there to talk about the exhibition tournament. Aramis had been working with Sylvie in his spare time for two months on further outreach to wounded veterans, and had presented a working plan to Athos last week. As Treville’s lieutenant at the club, it was up to Athos to go over it and spot any problems before wasting Treville’s time with it. Athos and Charles had done this together on the weekend...amongst other things.

He had to go out and buy the ingredients for that evening’s meal. When he and Aramis had first moved to the area, Athos had paid little attention to the local markets beyond the _boulangerie_ and the shop where he bought milk when they had run out. Charles, when he’d moved in with Athos, had been ecstatic at the variety of ingredients and merchants practically at their doorstep. In his persistent quest to make cooks of all of them, he’d dragged them together and individually around the shops and stalls, making them buy ingredients, talking to them about the difference in quality between cuts of meats and types of vegetables.

Porthos, who already knew how to cook more than the basics, took to it the easiest, but Athos, by nature and by affection for his dear Charles, took to it the most thoroughly, and now did most of the cooking, although with Charles’s help when ever possible. Outside of making love, or fencing together, cooking was their favourite shared activity, and every meal he made, symbolised for Athos the progress in health and joy he had found with the man he had married. Love in physical form, he considered it.

While heading for the butcher’s, he called Aramis’s phone. It went to voicemail, so Athos left a message for his friend to call him about the tournament. He bought the chicken and bacon, and two chicken carcasses for stock, the vegetables, a bottle of _vin du table_ , and a loaf of good bread. They had cheese in the apartment, so a little dried fruit and coffee beans were all he needed to complete his shopping expedition.

He put the chicken carcasses in the pressure cooker to boil up for stock, and set about cooking the chicken pieces in the frying pan. His phone rang and he put it on speaker while he continued to work. “Athos, it’s Charles. Have you seen the news?”

“No? Has something happened?”

“Truck bomb in Fauborg St Germain. Don’t expect me or Porthos for dinner.”

A chill flooded through Athos. “ _Where_ in Fauborg?”

“What? Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

“Where did the bomb go off?”

“Avenue de Lowendal.”

Athos had to grip the counter to stay upright. “Aramis is at the Ministry of Health today. Was it hit?”

“I don’t know.” Athos heard him talking to someone. “Shit, I have to go. Try calling him. I’m sorry, love. I’ll call again when I can.”

Athos turned off the heat under the frying pan and stumbled to the living room to switch on the television. News of the bomb was playing on every station so he stayed on France 24. The bomb had been in a small lorry near the corner of Avenue de Lowendal and Avenue Duquesne, and had exploded half an hour before Charles’s call. Athos checked Google Maps. The ministry offices were on Avenue Duquesne. His heart in his mouth, he tried to find a map on the internet with the exact location of the bomb. Right on the corner, apparently. He tried Aramis’s number. Still going to voicemail.

He closed his eyes, memories sending cold shocking currents through him. Bodies, torn, broken, bloodied. The heat and dust making the smell of blood and hot metal and explosive so much stronger. The whimpers and cries of dying men, of Aramis clutching his maimed arm to him, eyes wide in shock and agony.

The last breaths of his friends as they bled out into the road.

He shook his head. He had to keep it together. He called Porthos, but it also went to voicemail. What more could he do from here? He clutched his phone and stared at the television. Aramis could have been anywhere in the building. The building was one of a number of public service headquarters in the block. Right now, there was no clear picture of how many people had been injured or killed, and which buildings had been affected.

He could only wait.

*************************

His phone rang at one thirty am, two hours after he’d gone to bed and failed to fall asleep. He grappled for it. “Hello?”

“It’s me. We found him. He’s alive.”

Athos put his hand over his chest, feeling the agony of stress ease there after hours of knotted physical pain. “Thank fuck. Is he hurt?”

“Not too badly. Bruises, lacerations. He was in a room which collapsed, but he was lucky and was protected by a steel beam. He was the only survivor on that floor.”

“God. Charles, where’s Porthos?”

“With him, but not for long. He has to go back to work. I won’t be back home until later today, if that.”

“Tell me where he is.” Charles gave him the information and Athos put it into his notes. “Are _you_ all right?”

“Fine. Tired. It’s horrible, Athos.”

“I can imagine.”

“I was going to say you couldn’t possibly, but I know you do. I’ll call when I can.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll call the hospital and Porthos.”

“Yeah, you might get through now. The mobile phone networks are back up. Got to go, love. Talk soon.”

Athos held the phone against him, his racing heart slowing. Aramis was okay. For now, that was all he needed to know.

He called Porthos, who picked up more or less immediately. “Hi. He’s asleep. I can’t stay much longer.” There were tears in Porthos’s voice.

“I’ll come over.”

“Not now, the place is insane. Call the hospital and find out when they’ll let you in. He’s safe, Athos. He’ll probably be released today.”

“I’ll bring him home if he is. Are you okay?”

“ _Now_ I am, yeah.”

“Come over when you’re ready. Sleep here if you want.”

“Thanks, mate. Talk to you later.”

Athos took a moment to send Porthos silent wishes of strength, then called the hospital. It took a while to get through, unsurprisingly. On discovering that Athos was Aramis’s emergency contact, they said he could come in at ten, as Aramis might be discharged then, and the doctors would want to talk to him.

When he hung up, he considered letting Aramis’s family know but thought it best to wait until he’d seen his friend. It wasn’t as if Aramis was dying, and they would only worry. It was two am. He could get a few hours’ sleep before heading over to the hospital.

*************************

Athos left meals in the fridge for his husband and Porthos, knowing neither would have energy to cook when they came home, and texted them to let them know. Then he caught a taxi to as close to the hospital as he could get, given the security cordon, and walked the rest of the way. As he expected, the hospital was more than busy, but at least he knew which ward Aramis was in, and didn’t have to join the enormous queue of people waiting to find out where their loved ones were.

Aramis was sitting on his bed, still in hospital provided pyjamas, with a dressing on his forehead, but no other obvious sign of injury. His prosthetic hand wasn’t attached, but sitting on the side shelf. Athos smiled at him. “How are you feeling?”

Aramis started. “Uh...fine. Who are you?”

 _Oh._ Athos kept smiling. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” _Bugger_.

His smile disappeared as he went in search of a nurse or a doctor or anyone who knew what was up with Aramis. He managed to grab someone and tell them who he was and what he wanted, and he promised to find a doctor. Athos waited and waited, until finally a harassed young doctor came towards him. “Monsieur de La Fère? Contact for Aramis Herblay?” she snapped.

“Yes. He seems to be amnesiac.”

“Yes, he is. Are you a relative?”

“No, they’re all in Spain. He’s my best friend and I have his power of attorney.” He showed her the documents proving this, and his ID.

“Right. Come with me.”

She took him to a waiting room which wasn’t empty, but where they could talk without Aramis overhearing. “His physical condition is fine. A few cuts and bruises, muscle soreness, from lying in a trapped, twisted position for hours. He hit his head and has mild concussion, but no other traumatic brain injury. He is, as you said, amnesiac, but the bump to his head is not the cause.”

“He’s a veteran,” Athos said. “Two years ago we were both hit by a roadside bomb, which is how he lost his hand and how I lost my leg.” The doctor nodded. “He went through a period of dissociative amnesia then, lasting about a week.”

“Ah, then this isn’t surprising. As you probably know, this kind of amnesia usually doesn’t last long and will end quite suddenly. The danger for him is that returning memories of what he’s trying to forget may traumatise him. Did he suffer PTSD?”

“We both did. Do, to a certain extent, but it’s under control. Can I take him home?”

“You live together?”

“Sort of. He used to share my apartment, but now lives with his partner in an apartment below. We’re in and out of each other’s places all the time.”

She frowned, trying to remember. “The partner—tall black man? A police officer?”

“Porthos du Vallon, that’s right.”

“But you have his power of attorney.”

“Aramis and I have been best friends for nearly twenty years. He’s been in a relationship with Porthos about two.”

She pursed her lips. “Then in those circumstances, it might be better for him to return to your place, not his own. But how will you cope with a traumatised amnesiac? You have to treat him very cautiously, and not try to force recall.”

“Yes, I know. I can ask my friend, Sylvie Boden, to help. She’s our counsellor and a psychologist. But he’ll receive treatment from here, yes?”

“Oh yes, psychotherapy is essential. But other than that, the only thing we can do for him is provide a safe, supportive environment. Be honest, Monsieur de La Fère—is that what you offer?”

“Yes, I believe so. My husband is another close friend of Aramis and his partner, and he’ll help. Though he’s in the [Paris BRI](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Research_and_Intervention_Brigade) working with [RAID](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RAID_\(French_Police_unit\)) right now so he might not be around much for the next few days. Nor will Porthos, come to that. It’s me or no one, unless he goes back to Spain to his family. But Paris is his home. He’s lived here since he was ten.”

“Very well. He can be discharged, but I’ll give him a referral for psychotherapy. He should rest today, even tomorrow, and then he should see a therapist. I can recommend one who I think will be good for him.”

She took Athos back to Aramis’s ward. Aramis smiled at them politely, though with a little frown of confusion “Aramis, this is a friend of yours. He’s going to take you home and look after you until your memory returns.”

“I’m Athos.” He held out his hand. Aramis looked at it, and then up at his face, making no attempt to take his hand, so Athos dropped it. “You used to live with me. Now you live downstairs with your partner.”

“Partner? Why isn’t she here?”

Athos looked at the doctor before answering. “Uh, _he’s_ a police officer, and working right now. He might be home when we get back. Is his prosthesis damaged?” he asked the doctor.

She looked at Aramis’s notes. “It just needs charging,” she said. “Aramis? Are you happy to leave with Athos?”

“I suppose so. I can’t even be sure my name is Aramis, so how can I be sure you’re who you say you are?”

Athos pulled out his wallet and his phone. “ID, and...yes, here you are, with me and my husband.” He showed him the photo.

“And my partner?”

Athos found a recent one of the two of them, and showed him. Aramis showed no recognition of Porthos, which Athos found in some ways more disturbing than Aramis not recognising him. “Okay. A guy, huh? I suppose that’s right.”

The doctor nodded at Athos. “Let me just get you the referral and the name of that psychotherapist, and then Aramis can leave with you. I’ll be back shortly.”

Athos smiled at Aramis again. “I brought you some clothes to change into. Do you want to do that?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Athos handed him the backpack, and Aramis poked through the clothes. “I don’t recognise anything. It’s creepy as hell.”

“Don’t worry. You went through this before and came out of it in about a week. You’ll be fine.”

“When? How?”

Athos belatedly realised he may have just broken the one rule he had to follow. “Um...a couple of years ago. There was...an accident. The one where you lost your hand.” Aramis looked at the stump as if he’d never seen it before. “Did anyone tell you how you came to be in this hospital?”

“An explosion, they said? I don’t remember anything about it. The first thing I can remember is being looked at by doctors here. You know me well?”

“Like a brother.”

“You weren’t a boyfriend or anything?”

Athos grinned. “No. Just best friends. I know this is scary and you’re having to take a lot on trust but I really am close to you and Porthos. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll let him know what’s happening?”

“Okay.” He took the backpack and headed over to the bathroom in the ward. Athos exhaled. How the hell was Porthos going to take this?

He sent a text to Porthos, copying it to Charles, and told them he was taking Aramis back to his and Charles’s place initially, and that they needed not to push on the memory front. No answer might mean they were both asleep or flat out at work. No matter, Athos could take care of getting Aramis home. At least, he hoped he could. If Aramis’s memories came back while they were on the way, there was a real risk he would freak out. He had last time, but then he’d been in an army medical facility with lots of people to take care of him. Athos had to hope he could get his friend home before any upset occurred.

He also texted Sylvie and asked her to drop over later if she had time. And finally he sent a message to Rosalita, Aramis’s oldest sister, to let her know he was safe but was having phone difficulties. No need to elaborate, he felt.

While Athos was packing up the prosthesis and Aramis’s other belongings, the doctor returned. She gave Athos a prescription for valium in case Aramis was having difficulty sleeping, and said he could take over the counter medication for the pain, though no aspirin.

“He must not be left alone, do you understand? And he must see this therapist, whether or not his memories return. This kind of amnesia is caused by great trauma. He’ll need help to make sure he comes through that okay.”

“Yes, I understand. I’ve been through this before.”

“Very well. Remember, no pushing, and I strongly urge you not to talk about the bomb, or his previous experience with one. Just let his memory return naturally. His partner will find this difficult, as will his friends. Patience is everything.”

“I assure you, when it comes to him, we have vast reserves of patience. I owe him so very much.”

She smiled suddenly. “That’s lovely to hear.” Aramis emerged from the bathroom at that point. “Ah, are you ready to leave now?”

Aramis smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Athos tried to imagine how frightening it would be to be without any memories, any knowledge of who one was or who one could trust. He put his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “You’re safe, I promise. You’re going home to a place you know very well, and with people who love you and care deeply for your happiness.”

Aramis straightened and made an obvious effort to be brave. “Then I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Hailing a taxi proved difficult, and Athos only persisted because he didn’t want to risk Aramis on the Métro. His friend didn’t question the chaos caused by the security cordon, fortunately, and Athos breathed a sigh of relief once they were in a taxi and on their way back to the apartment.

“Horrible thing, this bomb,” the driver said. “Bloody terrorists. They all need killing.”

Athos stiffened. Aramis frowned. “Terrorists?” he asked.

“Please just drive, _monsieur_ ,” Athos said in his haughtiest tone, cutting the man off. “Ignore him,” he said to Aramis.

Aramis nodded, still frowning. Athos put his hand on Aramis’s arm. “You’re moving stiffly. How sore are you?”

“I have a headache, and my back really hurts. My neck too. I don’t know why, though.”

Athos patted Aramis’s arm. “You can take something for it at the apartment.” Damn, avoiding discussing the bomb was going to be difficult.

A text arrived, from Sylvie. _Coming over around 3pm_.

Athos sent back, _Okay, thank you_. It would be good to have professional support.

At their building, Aramis noticed Athos’s slightly awkward manner of climbing the stairs. “You have an injured leg?”

“I have a prosthetic one. Like your hand.”

“Oh. Is that coincidence?”

“Sort of. We’re in here,” he said, opening the apartment’s door. He guided Aramis over to the couch. “Just have a seat. I need to see who’s home.”

The silence from his husband and his friend was explained by their presence in the bedrooms, dead to the world. They must have arrived not long after Athos left for the hospital. “They’re asleep,” he said, returning to the living room.

“Who?”

“My husband and your partner.”

“Why is my partner in your apartment?”

“I suggested it, since you’ll be here until your memory returns.”

“Oh. I live with a man. That sounds strange.”

Athos hoped Porthos would understand if Aramis said this in his hearing. “You’re very much in love. Good for each other.”

“Okay. What do you do?”

“Not much. I run an amputee fencing club and work with—” He nearly said ‘veterans’. “People with disabilities.”

“You don’t have a proper job?”

“I, uh, have independent income.”

“Do _I_ have a job?”

“You do. You’re a nurse and work as a sexual health counsellor. Which reminds me, I’d better contact your employer.” And Treville too. The tournament meeting would have to wait.

Aramis rubbed his neck. “Could I have something for this pain, please?”

“Of course.” Athos fetched ibuprofen and water, and assessed Aramis’s appearance. His friend was obviously in a lot of discomfort, and pale with it. “Maybe you should lie down.”

“With my, uh, partner?”

“No. Out here, if you like. Or in the spare bedroom.”

“Out here. The idea of being on my own scares me.”

Athos grinned. “That hasn’t changed, at least. Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”

“No. A shower later, maybe.”

“Then I’ll fetch pillows and blankets.”

He made Aramis comfortable, and then, as Aramis had done so often for him, took his feet into his lap so he could keep a physical connection with his friend while he slept. “Are you _sure_ we’re not lovers?” Aramis asked.

“Quite sure. Just rest.” Athos gently massaged one of Aramis’s feet, remembering how lovely and soothing it had felt when Aramis had done this. Athos was not too proud to admit that he needed this as well, right now.

Once Aramis was asleep, Athos messaged Treville and Aramis’s clinic. With the degree of destruction, the numbers of dead and injured, he knew that his messages would be no surprise, just a relief to anyone worrying about Aramis. What couldn’t be predicted was how long it would take for him to return to work. This was the least of Athos’s worries right now. He could afford to support Aramis for the rest of his life, if necessary, and damn well would, if it came to it.

The keening sound was quiet at first, but startling in the silent room. Aramis’s legs stiffened, and as Athos moved, preparing to stand, Aramis suddenly screamed. Athos hastily got up and went to hold Aramis’s shoulders to soothe him. His whole body had gone rigid.

“Aramis, wake up. Come on, you’re okay.”

But the screaming went on for nearly a minute, before it suddenly stopped and Aramis went limp, though he hadn’t woken through the whole thing.

Charles’s bedroom door slammed and Porthos dashed out. “What’s happening...Aramis? Is he—”

Athos held up his hand. “Shhh. He’s having a nightmare.”

Porthos swayed, obviously still waking up and very tired. “Lemme see.”

Athos moved out of the way so Porthos could hold his lover, and kiss his forehead. “He doesn’t remember you, just to warn you. It won’t last. He only went to sleep about half an hour ago.”

“Maybe I should take him to the bedroom?”

Athos considered. “Yes, why not? But be careful of him. Don’t force the memories. And don’t talk about the explosion at all.”

“Okay.” Porthos got his arms under Aramis and lifted him as easily as a child. Athos held the bedroom door for him and watched as Porthos laid his lover tenderly on the bed, covering him up. Porthos climbed in beside him, and wrapped his arms around him. Athos didn’t know how Aramis would react to waking like that, but the physical comfort would be good for him.

“When do you have to go back to work?”

Porthos wiped his face. “Seven tonight. Charles’s the same.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Nah, too tired.”

“I’ll make sure you have something when you wake. Just go back to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“Thanks, mate.”

Athos closed the door, but not completely. He wanted to hear if Aramis woke or was distressed again. He went to his own bedroom door and opened it quietly. Charles was crashed on the bed, still partly dressed, only having removed his trousers. Athos pulled a blanket from the wardrobe and draped it over his husband, before bending and kissing his forehead. Charles stirred a little but didn’t wake. Athos badly wanted to talk to him and find out how he was, but if he had to go back to work at seven o’clock, he needed as much rest as he could get.

Twenty minutes later, he heard Aramis yell again. Athos went to the bedroom door, but Porthos was already soothing him. “You’re not going to get much sleep if he keeps doing this,” Athos whispered.

“Let’s see how he goes.”

Athos nodded and withdrew. Fifteen minutes later, he heard yelling, and then a loud curse from Porthos. Athos rushed to the doorway, and found Porthos holding a hand over his eye, while Aramis flailed on the bed. Athos went to Aramis and stroked his forehead, speaking quietly to him until he settled. “What happened?”

“He punched me in the face, got me good.” Porthos climbed out of bed. “I need to ice this.”

“In the freezer, cold packs. Why don’t you sleep in the other room? I’ll stay with him.”

Porthos grimaced. “Okay. I don’t want to leave him...but I got to get some rest.”

“Yes. Shoo. We’ll be fine.” It was twelve thirty. Athos decided he would let Aramis rest if he could until two thirty, and then rouse him for Sylvie’s visit.

Over the next two hours, Athos was glad Porthos had moved to the spare bedroom. Aramis screamed and whimpered, struggled with unseen enemies, and cried, all without waking up. Athos kept a careful hold of him from behind to avoid Porthos’s fate, and petted and whispered and rubbed as gently as he knew how until each nightmare ended. In the military hospital, Aramis had been sedated. How helpful that had been, Athos couldn’t say, but it wasn’t an option now.

Aramis woke up not long after two o’clock, tears drying on his face, and shivering. “Where...who...oh yeah, Athos. Why am I in bed?”

“We moved you in here earlier,” Athos said, deciding not to mention the accident with Porthos. “How do you feel?”

“Rotten, actually.”

“You didn’t sleep very soundly. I have a friend coming over, a friend of us both, at three. Why don’t you have a shower and something to eat before then?”

“Not feeling hungry.”

“Let me see if I can tempt you.” Charles’s chicken soup recipe was known to work miracles, or so he claimed. It certainly was a treat when one was ill, Athos had found.

Aramis went off to the bathroom. Athos set some of the soup heating and put some bread in the oven, then checked the charging of Aramis’s phone and prosthesis. Normally Aramis would never spend much time without his artificial hand, but at the moment, he seemed uninterested in the thing, like having only one hand was normal. How long would that last?

Charles was still asleep, as was Porthos, who would have an impressive and painful shiner as a souvenir of trying to help his lover. Athos closed the door quietly. Porthos would have a headache too, most likely.

Aramis emerged from the bathroom clean, but shaky. “Sit down in the kitchen,” Athos said. “Do you want your prosthesis?”

Aramis looked at his stump. “I don’t remember how to use it.”

“Never mind. You only need to lift a spoon. How’s the pain?”

“Better? Headache is worse.”

“It’s the concussion. You just need to take it nice and easy.”

“I don’t think I’ll be running a marathon.”

“Good to hear.” Athos served him a small bowl of soup and some warm crusty bread. “See if that sits okay on your stomach.”

Aramis stared at the food, apparently confused. His eyes filled with tears. Athos sat next to him and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Aramis. Just eat, don’t think.”

“I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I had no idea who that man was. It’s like staring into complete darkness, when you know there’s something there, but no amount of straining makes it appear.”

Athos squeezed his shoulder. “Just let it come. It won’t take long. It’s not physical.”

“Can’t you just tell me why it’s happened?”

“No, I really can’t. Try the soup. My husband gave me the recipe, though he makes me do the cooking nowadays.”

“Nowadays?”

“When I met him, I couldn’t boil an egg. He trained me like a new puppy until I—”

“Stopped peeing on the carpet.”

Athos grinned. “More or less. Try it.”

Aramis took a sip. “Yes, it’s good.” He kept eating, and when Athos nudged the bread towards him, took a small piece and ate that too.

Just as he was finishing, the intercom went. “That’ll be Sylvie,” Athos said. “Our friend.”

“If you say so.”

Athos shook his head, and went to let Sylvie in. A couple of minutes later, he opened the front door to her. “Athos, how are you?” She hugged him. “Where is he?”

“Kitchen. Still amnesiac, and mildly concussed.”

“I understand.”

He followed her to the kitchen. Aramis stood politely. “Aramis, this is Sylvie. You’ve known her for several years.”

She held out her hand to Aramis, and he took it. “You poor thing. How do you feel?”

“Pummelled and confused.”

“I’m sure. I’m a psychologist. Would you like to talk to me about it?”

Aramis glanced at Aramis. “Professionally?”

“As a friend with experience. I’m not here to treat you, just to give Athos and you a hand.”

Aramis let Sylvie lead him over to the couch. “I’ll just pop in and be with Charles while you chat.” He slipped away to their bedroom and firmly but quietly closed the door behind him.

Charles was stirring, but snuggled into Athos’s embrace as Athos climbed on the bed with him. “I missed you,” Charles murmured.

“Me too. Worried.”

“How’s Aramis?”

“Not too bad physically. Still has amnesia. Sylvie’s talking to him. It’s making him frightened, and he can’t sleep without having awful dreams. He punched Porthos in his sleep, gave him a black eye.”

“Poor sod. Poor Porthos. I’m glad you’re here to look after him.” Charles kissed him on the forehead, then sighed. “I am so knackered. We have to go back at seven.”

“Yes, Porthos said. Do you want to try and get more sleep? You could have a couple of hours.”

“Mmmm. But I’m starving and I miss you.” He cuddled closer to Athos.

Athos stroked his fingers through Charles’s fine dark hair. “How about I bring you a tray and we can eat together? Then you can get a little more sleep.”

“Sounds lovely, thank you.”

“Give me ten minutes. You should shower and shave, save time later.”

“Good idea.” Charles headed into the en-suite while Athos went out to the kitchen.

Aramis was deep in quiet conversation with Sylvie, who held his hand as they talked. Athos turned up the heat on the _coq au vin_ and set out a tray. He heard one of the bedroom doors open and went out to see who it was.

 _Porthos._ Athos put a hand up, and a finger to his lips. “Sylvie,” he mouthed, then pointed back to the bedroom from where Porthos had emerged.

Porthos took the hint and backed up. “How is he?” he asked.

“Still confused, and frightened. I was going to suggest that he stays here tonight, sleeps with me, and you go back downstairs until he’s regained his memory.”

Porthos’s stance turned defensive. “I ain’t abandoning him.”

“You’re not. At the moment, you’re a stranger to him. The second his memory comes back, which could be any time, he’ll need you, desperately. So right now, get some rest and be ready for when he’s back. From experience, it’s going to be bloody horrible for him. Please, Porthos.”

Porthos frowned, but nodded. “I’m hungry. Any food here, or should I piss off downstairs?”

“I’m heating up a meal for Charles, so I’ll bring you something. He’s showering, so should you. I don’t want Aramis as he is now to see your eye. He won’t cope.”

“Good point.”

“Do you want another cold pack?”

“May as well. I wish I could do something for him.”

“Don’t worry, you will.” Athos patted Porthos’s arm. “Bathroom.”

Feeling slightly like a butler in a badly written farce, Athos returned to the kitchen. Aramis looked at him through the hatch, so Athos smiled. “Okay?”

“We’re fine,” Sylvie said. “Don’t suppose there’s a chance of tea?”

“Of course. Sorry, how rude of me.” Another ball in the air. He put the kettle on and continue to assemble the meal trays. He took Charles’s tray into their bedroom. His husband was out of the bathroom, in clean underwear and still towelling his hair. “I have to take food to Porthos, so I’ll be another couple of minutes.”

“Why? Why can’t he eat in the kitchen?”

“I don’t think Aramis will react well to Porthos’s anxiety about his condition. So I’ve suggested Porthos keep out of sight until Aramis’s memories come back.”

Charles sat on the bed. “Hard on Porthos.”

“Very. But I really believe this is necessary. He reacted badly to Porthos while asleep, while I was able to calm him. He has no memory of Porthos and his subconscious sees him as a stranger and a threat. It’s a soldier thing,” Athos clarified.

“If you say so. You want me to talk to Porthos?”

“Do what you can later, but not now. I’ll be back shortly.”

Athos waited in the spare bedroom with Porthos’s meal and the cold pack. When he returned, the big guy looked tired and a little beaten down. “Maybe you should call in sick?”

“Hell no,” Porthos said. “Even taking this time feels like I’m letting my mates down.”

“You need rest or you can’t do your job.”

Porthos shrugged. “I know, but...you know.”

“I do. Hope this is okay. I’m sorry to ask you to sleep downstairs. I’ll make sure you have food to come home to.”

“Don’t bother, I have stuff.”

“Even so.”

Porthos lifted his chin. “You look after him, that’s all I want. I better eat and go back to sleep.”

Athos took the hint. “ _Bon appétit_. Just put the tray on the floor when you’re done.”

He went back to make the tea for Sylvie, and took the third tray to them in the living room, taking a seat. “How are you doing?”

“I feel better,” Aramis said. “Not so frightened.”

“That’s good.” Athos sent a silent wish of intense gratitude to Sylvie, who sat looking calmly at Aramis, a source of strength and sense to both of them since the bomb. The first bomb, he amended. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked her.

“No more than you’re doing. Rest, calm, avoid disturbing media.”

“They gave Aramis a prescription for valium, to help him sleep, but his nightmares are so intense.”

She pursed her lips. “Some people do experience more intense, vivid dreams on it. If you can manage without,” she said, looking at Aramis, “you should.”

“I’ll try.”

“I thought you could sleep with me,” Athos said. The others looked at him. “ _Sleep_ , I said. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That would help, I suspect, but what will d’Artagnan say about that?” Sylvie asked.

“He’ll be fine with it. Speaking of Charles, he’s expecting me. Aramis, we can talk about this later. I’ll be back in half an hour or so. If you need anything, I’ll be in there.” He pointed at his bedroom door.

He went to the bedroom, and sagged theatrically against the door. Charles looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“I’m out of practice at logistics. Never mind.”

He climbed onto the bed next to his husband, and pinched a bit of his bread. He was hungry too, but a meal would have to wait. Charles was eating with dedication, perhaps because he hadn’t eaten since the small hours, and probably wouldn’t get another for a long while. Athos would have to pack him something to eat on the way to work. “I’m going to sleep with Aramis tonight, keep him calm. Do you mind if it’s in here?”

“Of course not,” Charles said. “Unless you plan to sleep in your prosthesis.”

“I was hoping not to. Thank you.” He put his arm around Charles’s shoulders. “What are you doing now? Looking for evidence at the site?”

“That, and chasing down the confederates. It might all be over by the time I go in, but I doubt it. Three hundred people dead, Athos. A thousand injured. I can’t get my head around it.” He leaned on Athos’s shoulder.

Athos stroked his hair. “Concentrate on your little part of the puzzle. It’s all you can do. If you try and take responsibility for the whole thing, you’ll go mad. Take that from an expert in being nutty.”

“You’re not. You never were.”

“Love, you didn’t meet me until the very worst was over. You didn’t see Aramis in the first couple of months after we were injured. There’s a reason our psychologist is one of our most used phone contacts.”

“Still.”

“No, listen to me, Charles. And this is for Porthos too. Don’t put a brave face on it. Don’t try and pretend you’re cool, that it doesn’t affect you. That way disaster lies. I can’t go out there with you, but I can help you here. You can help him, and your colleagues. This stuff is bad. It’ll get to you. So focus on the possible, the task in front of you. And talk about it with me. Let Porthos talk about it with both of us. He may not be able to do that with Aramis for a while. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Charles sighed, and put the tray on the bedside table. “I’m full. Stay with me?”

“Until you’re asleep.”

Charles slid down under the covers. Athos plastered himself along Charles’s body, putting his nose at Charles’s nape, inhaling the clean smell of his freshly washed skin and hair. Charles took Athos’s hand between his own and held it tight. Athos used his breathing to slow down and deepen his husband’s, willing him back to sleep as quickly as possible, while using Charles’s solid mass and heat to ease his own anxieties. He allowed himself a good half an hour with his husband, then reluctantly slid away from Charles and silently left the room.

He found Sylvie and Aramis had finished the tea and biscuits, and from the way they looked at him, guessed they had come to a natural halt. “How are you both?”

“Fine, I think,” Sylvie said. “I thought I might go, but you can call me later if you want, Athos. Aramis had some questions, and I think I’ve answered them all. Haven’t I?”

“Yes.” Aramis looked better, though still pale.

“Good. And I know you don’t remember, but we have a wonderful project that Athos is going to help us with, and once your memory returns, we’ll be working on that again. That’s a happy memory when you recall it.”

“Nice to know there is at least one.” Aramis’s voice shook a little.

“You have a good life, a gorgeous partner who adores you, and friends who would do anything for you,” she said firmly, taking his hand again. “You have all that to look forward to.”

“Hope so.”

“Let me walk you down,” Athos said to Sylvie.

On the street, he asked her, “How bad is it going to be, realistically?”

“It depends on how much of the bomb he remembers, how bad that was, and how those memories tie into the original attack. His memories of that are incomplete, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” Athos had an unfortunately perfect recall of that day, but Aramis had only retained a few flashes, remembered smells. Enough to give him PTSD, but not enough to remember what happened in any detail. He knew about it from Athos more than anything.

“Sleep with him tonight as you planned, and even when his memories return, he can’t be left alone. Call me when that happens, immediately. Day or night. Have you called the psychotherapist?”

“Not yet.” He pulled the note with the contact number out of his pocket and showed Sylvie. “Do you know her?”

“Oh yes. She’s good. Why don’t I call her and tell her what I’ve done, and set up an appointment for the day after tomorrow. His concussion will be much better by then and hopefully his memory will have returned.”

“What about Porthos? Aramis seems not to believe he could be in love with a man.”

She touched his arm. “Don’t worry. That will all come back. But I don’t know how Porthos will handle his reactions, so I’ll help there, as I can.”

“Thank you.” He hugged her, grateful for her friendship, her humour, and common sense. “You should bill me for this, you know.”

“Come off it, Athos. He’s not my patient and neither are you. We’re friends. If he needs formal counselling, that’s different, but right now, the psychotherapist can handle it. Now you, get as much rest of you can, and call me. Do you hear?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you.”

“I have to go. Talk to you soon.”

Aramis was standing in the middle of the living room, looking lost and a lot younger than his thirty-nine years when Athos returned. Athos went to him and put his arms around him. “Can I help?”

“Not really. When do I meet Porthos?”

“Um, tomorrow, perhaps. If your memory comes back.”

Aramis pushed him away. “What’s wrong? Something happened, didn’t it?”

Amnesiac or not, Aramis was still close to being psychic as he always was in his guesses. “He came home earlier while you were napping on the couch. You were...distressed. Nightmares, we think. He took you to bed to keep you company, but it seemed to make it worse for you. So we arranged for him to keep away until you remember him.”

Aramis’s eyes grew wide in horror. “You’d do that to him?”

“For you, yes. He agreed, Aramis.”

“But you can’t, if he’s my lover. Where is he now?”

“Asleep.” Athos put his hands on Aramis’s shoulders. “Stay calm, okay? We don’t want to throw you into flashbacks or force your memory back.”

“I _want_ to force it back. I hate this. I have to take every single thing on trust. What if this is all imaginary? What if you’re lying? What if I’m in a coma?”

Athos suspected Sylvie had already gone over all this, so there wasn’t any point in reassuring him again. “Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know...to exploit me?”

Athos rolled his eyes. “Come over here, and sit down.” He led Aramis to his desk in the corner of the room, then pulled out the binder with his bank statements. “See that name? That’s me. That’s my current bank balance.”

Aramis blinked. “Holy fuck.”

“Yes. I own this apartment, and the one you live in. I own other property too. I’m disgustingly, immorally rich, and the only fun I have is using my money to let you guys live rent-free and support you while you did your Masters degree. So I don’t want you for your money, and I’m married to the hottest guy you could ever imagine, who’s a good twelve years younger than you, and no offence, but I don’t need your body. What would I exploit you for? Your embroidery skills?”

“I do embroidery?”

“On occasion. Seriously, Aramis.” Athos bent and laid his cheek on his best friend’s head. “I love you more than I ever did my real brother. I just want you to get well.”

“Okay.” When Athos looked into his face, Aramis was teary-eyed but smiling. “Hot husband?”

“The _hottest_ husband. Trust me. Your boyfriend is gorgeous, but mine’s the supermodel.”

“Uh huh.”

“You wait. Yes, you could be in a coma, but I can’t tell you otherwise because I would say that, wouldn’t I?”

Aramis coughed out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So, give it a few hours or a day, or whatever it takes. You were never good at patience, but try for me.”

“I will. Could I have another pain pill, do you think?”

Athos kissed his hair again. “Of course. More tea?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

He kept an eye on and close contact with Aramis for the next hour, talking about the fencing club and other non-contentious topics. Aramis accepted Athos’s opinion that neither TV nor the internet would be good for him right now, and a promise to take him on a walk the next day if he was up to it, was met with a happy smile. Aramis wasn’t normally a passive person, but without his memory, the engine that drove his personality was stalled. It was rather like caring for a small child, only one with superior language skills. Athos was terrible with small children and hoped very hard for Aramis’s memories come back _soon_.

At six-thirty, Charles emerged, fully dressed but yawning. Athos jumped up to hug him. “Want to eat something before you go?”

“Coffee would be good. Have you got something I could eat later?”

“I made you a meal box. Coffee coming up.”

Charles looked past him. “Hi, Aramis.” He released Athos and went to his friend. “How are you? I’m Charles. Charles d’Artagnan. Athos’s husband.”

“You were right,” Aramis called to Athos in the kitchen.

“I had no doubt.”

“What are you two talking about?” Charles asked, turning to Athos.

“I have the hottest husband ever. Simple fact.”

Charles laughed. “Athos, you can’t go around saying shit like that.”

“I can and I will. Anyway, Aramis agrees.”

“ _Aramis_ has amnesia.”

“No, that doesn’t work. He agrees me even when he’s not amnesiac.” Athos quickly ground the coffee beans, put them into the coffee press, and poured on the boiling water. “Do you want a Thermos to take with you?”

“Yes, please.”

Athos handed Charles a cup of coffee, and took another into the spare bedroom where Porthos was still asleep. Athos woke him. “Time to go.”

Porthos sat up, thanked him as he accepted the coffee and took a long pull. “How’s Aramis?”

“Same. A little better, perhaps. Sylvie talked to him for about an hour, which helped. He’s safe, Porthos. Go to work and try not to worry.”

Porthos finished his coffee and climbed out of bed. “Don’t ask for the impossible, Athos. But thanks. I’ll get dressed and slip out with d’Artagnan.”

“I know it’s hard. I’ll keep you informed of the smallest change, I promise.”

“You’d better.”

“I’ll give Charles a meal box for you. Stay safe at work.”

Athos exhaled as he left the room. He and Porthos were good friends now, but the man had an undercurrent of restrained violence about him when he was upset or angry, and having been on the other end of that once before, Athos couldn’t help but be wary of it. Porthos would never hit him, or ever try again, but this situation was highly abnormal. The sooner Porthos was off to work, the happier Athos would feel, however ashamed he was to admit it.

Charles looked more awake, sitting on the couch next to Aramis. “How long will this shift be, do you think?” Athos asked.

“At least twelve hours, I think. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” He followed Athos into the kitchen. “Porthos?” he asked, back to the living room, voice almost a whisper.

“Awake. I’ve made him a box too. Grab him on the way out. Look after him, love.”

“I will.” Charles kissed him. “I better go.”

“Stay safe. I mean it.”

“Yes, dear.”

Charles grabbed the bag with the meal boxes and his thermos, called out a farewell to Aramis, and disappeared towards the spare bedroom.

“He really is hot,” Aramis said after the front door closed. “But I have nothing to compare him to.”

“You saw Porthos’s picture.”

“I did? Show me again.” So Athos pulled up the photos on his phone again, and more. “He’s pretty hot too. Different hot.”

“Yes. It’s not actually a competition. How’s your head?”

“Better. Were you in the army?”

There was nothing in the living room to indicate Athos’s old career. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I just kept thinking I’d seen you in a uniform. D’Artagnan’s is different.”

“Yes.” How did Aramis remember to call Charles by his surname? Athos didn’t dare push, but was this a hopeful sign?

When Aramis asked if they could watch a film, he chose SPECTRE, an old favourite that pre-dated even Aramis’s relationship with Porthos. Athos made the same comments and criticisms he always made, and Aramis gave exactly the same responses. _He’s still in there_. Athos dared to hope the amnesiac wall would collapse soon.

They went to bed early by normal Aramis standards, but by then, he was flagging badly. He slid into Athos’s and Charles’s bed with a sigh, but had a little frown on his face as he watched Athos take off his prosthesis and the stump sock. “How did that happen, did you say?”

“Road accident,” Athos said accurately, but misleadingly. “The one as took your hand.”

“Right. How long ago?”

“A couple of years. If you hear me clunking about in the dark, don’t panic. It’ll just be me on my crutch.”

“That’s why the bed’s lower?”

“Yes. The room’s set up so I can get from here to there,” he pointed at the en-suite door, “or into the living room, without putting my leg on.”

“You walk very well.”

“Now, yes. It’s a well-designed prosthetic. They’ve improved so much because of the—” He bit his tongue.

“The...?”

“Money spent on the military,” Athos lied. “Scoot over, I have to sleep on that side.”

Aramis moved. “Your hot husband doesn’t mind?”

“He hasn’t objected yet. He’s fine,” he said when Aramis looked confused. “He knows what we’re like. Tactile. You taught me to enjoy it.”

“Why?”

“Um...I’m an alcoholic, and suffered from depression. You were the saving of me.”

“Wow.”

Athos smiled to himself, because those memories were good ones. “Just telling the truth. You and Charles dragged me back to reality. You should try and sleep.”

“I’ve been asleep or dozing most of the day, feels like.”

“Concussion is a sod. Do you...uh....”

Aramis rolled over. “What?”

“Do you want me to put my arm over you?”

“Yeah. Are you _sure_ we’re not lovers?”

“Porthos is a lucky man, Aramis. But no.” Athos slung his arm around Aramis’s waist. “We have never fucked, and we’re not going to. Now go to sleep. Wake me if you need me, for any reason.” He leaned in and kissed Aramis’s forehead. “I hope the nightmares leave you alone.”

“I don’t remember any of them, fortunately.” Hesitantly, Aramis returned the kiss. “Good night.”

Athos closed his eyes, and willed Aramis to go to sleep quickly.

As he expected, Aramis did not rest easy for the first couple of hours, but as the hour approached midnight, he settled down into a deep sleep and didn’t stir again, allowing Athos to get some decent sleep himself.

A blow to the side of his face woke him up, and he flailed at his attacker before he realised it was Aramis, and that Aramis was yelling. “Porthos? Where’s Porthos? Athos, where’s Porthos?”

Athos rolled over and grabbed Aramis’s shoulders. To his surprise, Aramis was wide awake. “Calm down. He’s at work.”

Aramis stared into his eyes. “Is he safe?”

“Yes, he is. Aramis, do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, you’re Athos. Are you sure he’s okay? There was an explosion, I think...I don’t remember. Did you tell me that? Where’s d’Artagnan?”

At the slightly panicked sound in Aramis’s voice, Athos shook him gently and spoke firmly. “They’re _both_ safe. Your memory’s returned.”

Aramis went still. “Yes, I think? When did I get back here? How...tell me?”

Athos wrapped his arms around his friend, and explained what happened, without lingering on the details of the explosion.

“I remember sitting at the seminar. Did Sylvie come here yesterday?”

“Yes, she did.”

“I remember that. I think I remember that.” He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. “How many dead?”

“Too many. The doctor said not to give you too much information. Sylvie said the same.” Athos craned to look at the clock, since it was still dark outside the windows. Seven o’clock. “I should text Porthos and Charles. Sylvie too. Do you want to sleep any more?”

“Not now. My head hurts.”

“Concussion. You have bruising, muscle strain. Nothing serious, thank God.”

Aramis clutched Athos’s t-shirt. “The others at the seminar—did anyone else get out?”

“Aramis, please don’t ask—”

“Any of them?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Athos lied. He touched Aramis’s cheek. “Please. Give your mind a chance to adjust. I need to talk to Sylvie.”

Aramis raised his arm as if to hold Athos’s wrist, and stared at his stump in confusion. “My hand....”

“You remember how you lost it?”

“Yes...now I do. Where’s the prosthesis?”

“The living room. Do you want it?”

“Eventually.” He rolled back and put his maimed arm over his eyes.

Athos put his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “Stay in bed. I’ll bring you some tea. You’re supposed to take it easy today.”

“Why am I in your bed anyway? In your apartment?”

“You weren’t to be left alone. You, ah, reacted badly to sleeping with Porthos.”

Aramis turned to look at him. “Athos, what aren’t you telling me?”

“You hit him in the face, flailing about. It was an accident but he has a hell of a black eye.”

Aramis groaned. “Oh shit. Text him, Athos. Please. He’ll be worried sick.”

“Yes, he is.” Athos reached for his phone and sent the same message to Charles, Porthos and Sylvie. _Amnesia gone, he’s okay._ More could wait until he spoke to them. “So, I’ll make some coffee?”

Aramis nodded, and turned away from him. Athos put his prosthesis on, and went out to start the day.

*************************

Charles texted an hour later to say he and Porthos were both on their way home, so Athos asked him to pick up pastries and croissants. Aramis was still in bed, having dozed off before Athos could call him to have coffee. Athos would kick him out of their bedroom when Charles came back, but he could stay where he was, for now.

Athos could now look at the news on his iPad. It was all at least as bad as Charles had said, if not worse. The earliest reports had blame Islamic militants, of course, but now the finger was being pointed at the ultra rightwing. Arrests had been made, statements had been read to the press, expressions of sympathy had flooded in from France’s allies. A state of emergency had been declared, and yet Paris managed to keep going, as it always did. The _tabacs_ , the _boulangeries_ , the fruit markets and the butchers, the civil servants, the doctors, the firemen and the bankers, all went on with their jobs, cursing the inconveniences and the bombers. A very small part of the population mourned their dead, and others, like Athos and his little family, dealt with the survivors. But they made barely a ripple in the ceaseless stream of life in the world’s most fascinating city.

He didn’t linger over the images, and kept right away from anything which showed dead or injured people. He couldn’t afford to trigger his PTSD, or sink into miserable memories. Aramis needed him, Porthos needed him. So would Charles, most likely.

Charles texted Athos from the _boulangerie_ to let him know he could put the coffee on, which he did. His husband was barely through the door before Athos grabbed him into a tight hug, then Porthos behind him received the same.

“He’s okay,” Athos said. Porthos patted his back and said nothing, but when Athos looked into his face, he found Porthos was crying.

“I’m really happy,” Porthos said, sniffling, which made Athos laugh.

“Come and sit. He went back to sleep but I’ll wake him up in a few minutes. Food first?” he asked them both. “Or shower?” They were both dusty and exhausted.

“Coffee,” Charles said and Porthos nodded. “Unless you can’t bear the sight of us.”

Athos rolled his eyes, took the bag of pastries from him, and leaned in to kiss his husband’s lips. “Don’t be an idiot. Just sit down.”

Charles took off his jacket and headed for the living room, but Porthos stopped and turned at the sound of Athos’s bedroom door opening. Aramis stood there in his underpants and t-shirt, blinking. Porthos rushed over and enveloped his lover in a bear hug, saying nothing that Athos could hear, though he could guess what they were saying. Charles looked at Athos and grinned.

Once released from Porthos’s embrace, Aramis exclaimed at the state of his uniform, and Charles’s. “What _have_ you been doing?”

“Crawling through rubble. I didn’t think they made captains do that, but Charles was there on his hands and knees too.”

Charles went to Aramis and hugged him. “How are you?”

“Fine. A bit disoriented. Can’t remember much about what happened, though.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“Athos won’t tell me about the others at the seminar. I—” Aramis went quiet at Charles’s all too expressive look. Athos held his breath. “They’re all gone, aren’t they?”

“I’m sorry. You were trapped by a girder that created a pocket which protected you from the weight of the floor above.”

“But not the others.” Aramis’s knees started to go. Porthos caught him and took him to the couch, where he held his lover against him as he cried. Charles sent Athos a helpless look. Athos shook his head. Aramis was bound to find out some time.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, with Aramis still trying to understand why he was spared and twenty others in the room were not. Athos was selfish enough to be glad that if anyone made it, it was his dearest friend, but that was no comfort to the families of those who died, or to Aramis himself. Porthos urged Aramis to eat, stroking his hair and his back, and murmuring against his ear until the tears stopped.

While they ate, Athos received a text from Sylvie, saying she would drop over that afternoon and the time of next day’s appointment for Aramis. “I _know_ she was here, but I don’t _remember_ her being here,” Aramis said. “It’s such a strange sensation.”

“It was pretty weird talking to you without your memory,” Athos said.

“Oh? What did I do?”

“You were certain you and I were lovers despite my denials, and I finally had to show you my bank statements to prove I really wasn’t planning to sell you into sex slavery.”

Charles choked. “You what?”

“You’re joking,” Aramis said.

“Not at all. Then when we watched SPECTRE, I scoffed at the talkative ring, and you said—”

“It’s a good thing none of the villains never washed their hands or shook anyone else’s.”

“He always says that,” Porthos said, taking Aramis’s hand.

“Yes. But how did he know he always says that? It was seriously weird,” Athos said.

“Amnesia sucks,” Aramis said. “Sorry, Athos.”

Athos waved his hand in dismissal. “It was fine. I knew it was short-term.” He climbed to his feet, and went to the charger holding Aramis’s prosthesis. “You were utterly uninterested in this. I presume that’s changed?” He removed it and brought it over. His friend took it eagerly and put it on with almost indecent haste.

“Definitely,” Charles said, grinning at Aramis. He put his cup down. “I need a shower and sleep. Athos, please don’t let me sleep for more than three hours. I’m not on again until eight tomorrow. Neither is Porthos.”

“So I should fuck off and clean up too.” Porthos put his own cup down. “Aramis, are you coming downstairs?”

Aramis looked at Porthos, then at Athos. “What do you think?”

“Porthos, could you sleep up here again?”

“I guess.” Porthos frowned at Athos. “But why?”

“Sylvie wants me to keep an eye on him. One of us, anyway. Aramis?”

Aramis nodded slowly. “Makes sense. Why don’t we grab our stuff and come back? You can shower down there. We both can.” He managed to insert a little leer into his tone and Porthos grinned. “Okay?”

“Okay. We’ll be back soon, Athos.”

Charles helped him clean up, and stole a kiss in the kitchen. “Was it bad last night?”

“No. He was still Aramis. I was worried but not unduly. How are you?”

“Finding it tough. We’re looking for clues, not bodies, but they’re still pulling them out and we see them.” He inhaled. “Would you think me weak if I asked you to sleep with me this morning?”

“Don’t be silly, love.” Athos put his arms around Charles’s waist and tugged him close. “I couldn’t really look at the news reports yesterday. I didn’t want to be blindsided.”

“You think that’s going to happen to Aramis?”

“Almost inevitable, I’d say. We can’t keep it from him forever, and triggers aren’t that predictable. Sylvie has made him an appointment with a doctor tomorrow.” He gently slapped Charles’s arse. “Go shower and get into bed. I’ll be in after Porthos returns.”

Aramis was back in minutes. “Where’s my phone? And my iPad? Did you call the clinic? And what about Treville?”

Athos held up a hand. “Here, don’t know, yes, and I emailed him. Anything else?” He picked up Aramis’s phone and handed it to him. “It was in your pocket. I assume the iPad was, you know....”

“Yeah. Bugger. Still, it’s replaceable. Not like—” Aramis stopped, and inhaled. “Christ, Athos. How many died?”

“Three hundred and fifty-seven, at last count.” He put his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “I’ll replace the iPad, but please stay off the internet. There’s a lot of gruesome images been put up. It’s hitting Charles, and he hasn’t even got PTSD.”

“Understood.” Aramis pulled him in for a hug. “Tough for both of us.”

“More for you than me, but I’m worried about our two favourite cops.”

“The psychiatrists are going to working overtime for months. Can I pinch some ibuprofen?”

“Let me get it. It’s so good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.” Aramis hugged him close again. “The kid and the big guy will be fine. We’ve got their backs.”

Athos smiled. “That’s how it works.”

Aramis released him, and Athos fetched the pain pill. Porthos came in and Aramis went off to be with him for a couple of hours, and since he was safe, Athos could indulge his need to be with Charles.

*************************

He found his husband sprawled on the bed with one knee bent, his hand lazily stroking his cock. “A suspicious person might think there was an invitation in all this,” Athos said, taking off his dressing gown and stripping off his t-shirt, before lying on the bed. He nudged Charles’s hand away from his cock and replaced it with his own. “Do you want something?”

“Yeah, sleep.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” He tried to get up only to find Charles’s hand pulling him down so Charles could kiss him in a way that didn’t indicate sleep happening in the next few minutes. “Oh, you were lying?”

“Yes, dear, I was lying. I do want sleep, but I want you first. Care to oblige?”

Athos reached between Charles’s legs and stroked a finger over his hole. “You’re ready for me.”

“You bet I am. Just take me, love. I need to feel you as close as possible.”

Athos kissed him, tasting his clean mouth, his hand in Charles’s hair. Charles closed his eyes. “Please?”

“Let me take my prosthesis off.” He moved to the end of the bed and took his leg off and the stump sock, then stripped off his underpants. He got between Charles’s legs, and lay over him for a moment or two. “Do you remember Aramis telling me I had the hottest husband? We were right, you know.”

“No, _I_ do. We should sell nude calendars and I could retire.”

“You could retire now, love.”

“Yeah, but if I could do it that way, then it’d be fun. Athos,” he whined. “Please?”

Athos bent Charles’s other knee, and splayed him open. He knelt up to look at the sight before him, and wondered all over again, how he’d been so lucky as to land this gorgeous guy. He grabbed one of the cushions from the top of the bed and shoved it under Charles’s bottom. He slid a finger in. Charles really had prepared himself. “More lube?”

“I’m fine.”

Athos tried another finger. Yeah, he was ready. “Stroke yourself, love. Don’t come though.”

He steadied himself on his knees and eased in slowly. Charles stared up at him with love in his deep brown eyes. “You always feel perfect,” Athos said.

“So do you. Don’t stop.”

Athos let Charles set the timing of his thrust, matching them to the strokes of his hand on his cock. Both of them liked it slow and deep, and even though Charles was tired, he wasn’t making any attempt to hurry Athos along. Athos delighted more in the journey, not the destination, and he had the strength in his body and patience in his heart to do this as long as Charles wanted. Charles was lost in sensation, but every few seconds he opened his eyes and smiled at Athos, who fell in love with him all over again every single time.

Charles sped up a little after a while, so Athos did the same. He could tell by the arching, the tendons in Charles’s long neck that he was close. “Come for me, love. Let it go. Let me see you.” He thrust as deeply as he could as Charles’s handed worked himself harder and faster and though they didn’t come together, it was more or less a photo finish.

Charles quickly wiped his hand with a tissue, so Athos could lean down over him while still inside. Charles nuzzled at his face. “Thank you, love. I wish I was up to something more adventurous.”

“Adventurous is good. This is good. It’s all good when I’m with you.” Athos bent and kissed Charles’s chest. “Think you can sleep now?”

“Stay with me?”

“Yes. Aramis is safe with Porthos. I’m all yours.”

“I know. It gets me through the worst things, knowing that.”

“If you make me cry, Charles d’Artagnan, I shall be cranky.”

Charles stroked his hair. “And yet I’m not even a little bit sorry.”

*************************

Athos didn’t stay all morning at Charles’s side. There were things to do, like washing his uniform and cleaning up. Aramis wandered out after an hour and gave him a hand. He looked the best he had since he came home from hospital. “How’s the head?” Athos asked.

“Okay, actually. The headache is still there but better. I was lucky, all things considered.” His mouth turned down briefly as the totality of his luck struck him again. Survivor guilt, Athos thought, was a stone cold bitch.

“I have some groceries and food to get. Fancy a walk?”

“Of course. Watching Porthos sleep is a pleasure but not for hours.”

“We could switch and you can watch Charles.”

“Thanks, but no.”

It was a cold but dry day, and later, Athos thought, they might all go for a longer walk to the park. But right now, he was hunting for ingredients for tonight’s meal and other ordinary items like toilet paper. Aramis was content to walk along, poking at things, not troubled even when they passed the butcher’s shop with the displays of raw meat, which had been a potential trigger Athos had been concerned about. It took them about an hour to collect all the things on his list, when he remembered Aramis’s lost iPad. “I may as well replace that now,” he said, pointing to a display of Apple goods in an electronics store.

“You don’t have to. I can buy my own.”

“Please allow me. It’s a small enough token of my gratitude to the fates.”

Aramis smiled and shook his head. “If you insist, my pagan friend.”

Ten minutes later they emerged with the new iPad secured in Aramis’s backpack. Two police officer passed by, and their radios squawked. Aramis suddenly clutched his left arm to his chest and bent over, keening quietly to himself.

 _Shit._ Athos put his hand on Aramis’s neck. “Aramis, you’re safe. You’re home. You’re safe.”

But Aramis didn’t move or acknowledge Athos’s presence in any way. They were blocking pedestrians, who tut-tutted and sniffed. One stopped. “Is he ill, monsieur?”

“In a way. I can handle it, _madame_.”

She gave him a concerned look but went on her way. Athos bent close to Aramis’s ear and whispered reassurances, keeping his hand on his neck and rubbing it. He ignored the disproval of those walking around them, even the worried passers-by. It took easily ten minutes before he could persuade Aramis to straighten and be moved aside a little out of the path of pedestrians. Then he hugged Aramis until he felt a shift in his body’s tension. “Aramis? Do you know where you are?”

Aramis stared at him. “Athos?” he whispered.

“Yes, it’s me. Do you know where you are?”

“No. I want to go home, Athos.” The last words were said as quietly as a scared child.

His arm around Aramis’s shoulders, Athos took the fastest route back to the apartment. Aramis kept his face hidden against Athos’s coat much of the way, and he trembled continuously. In the apartment, Athos sat him down and wrapped a blanket around him, wedging him in with cushions, and kept talking quietly to him as he put the cold food in the freezer and put the kettle on. He brought back a cup of sweetened tea and urged Aramis to drink it.

Slowly Aramis came back to himself, his face drawn and tired but his eyes much more alert. “Do you know where you are?” Athos asked.

“Home. Your home.”

“Our home, always. Here or there.” Athos put his hand on the back of Aramis’s neck again. “Do you remember what triggered it?”

“Sound. The radio, I think. Not sure.”

“That’s new?”

“Yeah. Fuck it.”

“Sylvie’s coming over later. You can ask her about it.”

“I know what it is. I even know what to do about it.” Aramis drank his tea with an irritated expression. “I worked so hard—we both worked so hard—and I go to a perfectly ordinary work event and now I’m set back two and a half years ago. Even the pain came back.” He rubbed his left wrist above the prosthesis.”

“You realise it’s barely forty-eight hours after this bomb went off, right? Forty-eight hours after the attack in Afghanistan, you were non-functional at any level. Not just because of your injuries, but mentally. You were worse than me in the beginning. You haven’t gone back to that.”

“Small comfort.”

“To me, it’s an enormous comfort. You’re still here, Aramis. I’m not afraid I’ll lose you.”

“You _did_ lose me.”

“For what, twenty minutes? I got you to respond a bit after ten. That’s nothing.” Athos cupped the back of his head. “You are better than you were, in so many ways. This is a small setback.”

“If I can’t even walk down the street in our neighbourhood—”

“You did. You will. I’ll be with you every step of the way until you can. And after you can.” He hugged Aramis to him, and his friend curled into his embrace. How many times had Aramis done this for him, even when Athos had fought tooth and nail for the right to kill himself with alcohol?

After a bit Athos made more tea, and served the pastries they hadn’t had for breakfast, and by the time Charles emerged from his nap, Aramis was back to normal on the surface of it. But Charles still noticed something was different. “Did I miss something?” He sat down opposite them and swiped one of the pastries. Athos rose to fetch him a cup for tea.

“Flashback,” Aramis said. “Out in the market.”

“Damn. Are you okay?”

“Now, yes. For how long, I don’t know.”

Charles sat on the other side of Aramis and cuddled up close to him, just as Athos done before. Charles was naturally good at people, far more than Athos had been. Athos had had to work to understand how to manage men under his command, to understand the emotional needs of his troops and his friends. Charles didn’t even had to think about it.

Athos handed Charles his tea and settled on Aramis’s other side. Aramis huddled close to him, and Athos stroked his hair. “Did you call the clinic?”

“Yeah. They’re not expecting me until next week. Depends what the shrink thinks.”

“Charles, Treville said not to rush things. The club is closed for another two weeks. A lot of your members are caught up in this one way or another. As is he, of course.”

“I thought as much.. I think it could be a month until that area gets close to normal.”

“It’ll take longer than that for me,” Aramis mumbled.

Athos patted his head. “Define normal first, my friend.” Aramis snorted.

“Being in a gay relationship was considered abnormal not long ago. Still is in many places,” Charles said.

Aramis struggled to stand, extracting himself from their embrace. He turned to glare at Charles. “You don’t get it, do you, d’Artagnan? This isn’t about society. This is about _me_. My brain, being broken. Again. Athos gets it. You don’t. Normal for us is being able to get through most days without being triggered into a panic attack, or dissociation. _Most_ days. When did you last have a flashback, Athos?”

“Three days ago,” he admitted. “A dog was hit by a car, and I saw the blood, heard it crying.” He pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes.

“You didn’t tell me,” Charles said, turning wounded eyes to him.

“I don’t. What could you do?” Charles looked down. They would have to talk about this later. “Aramis, before that it was at least two weeks. And I coped. Just like you cope.”

“ _Coped_ , you mean. You don’t have a job. What if I’m in the clinic and someone comes in for a blood test and there’s a spill or something? Or a recent amputation. Or I hear another police radio?”

“A radio?” Charles asked. Aramis waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to understand what triggers us. We don’t know half the time, before it happens. But now I have a whole new set of them waiting to ambush me, and the worst thing is I can’t even remember the explosion itself. So I can’t work out what’s going to affect me, so I can plan for it.”

“Sylvie can help,” Athos said.

“What if she can’t?”

Aramis was, hands down, the bravest soldier Athos had ever served with. Almost recklessly brave. To see fear in his eyes was horrifying.

Athos stood and went to him. “Then we deal, you and I. I carry you as long as it takes because that’s what brothers do. True brothers, not arseholes like Thomas. I don’t believe for a second you won’t get better. But if you don’t, you will never be left behind. You have my oath on that.” He held out his hand, and Aramis took it. “Brothers forever, Aramis.”

“Yes,” Aramis whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Athos shook his head, and pulled Aramis close. “Never apologise to me,” he murmured, holding him. A few seconds later, Charles joined them, his arms around them both.

And then there was a fourth holding them, big arms surrounding them effortlessly. _Porthos_. “I dunno what this is about,” Athos heard Porthos’s deep rumbling voice say, “but I’m all for group hugs, whatever the occasion.”

“I was promising Aramis that no matter what happens, how he goes with his recovery from this, however crazy he thinks he is, or whatever happens, I’ll be there, at his back.”

“We’ll be there,” Charles said.

“‘Course you will,” Porthos said. “All for one.”

Athos held the people he loved just that little bit tighter. “And one for all.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by my readers, who seem to be Aramis!whump fans to a woman :) It's not as satisfying as I wanted it to be, but it is what it is.
> 
> Comments, criticism, corrections and kudos craved.


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